


In A Crowd of Thousands

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: (for eve anyway), Cunnilingus, F/F, First Time, Inspired by Anastasia (1997), Making Love, Making Out, OKAY I THINK THAT'S EVERYTHING, Vaginal Fingering, also like the first five chapters are maaaayyybe a 't' for violence, and, it's like that but with the french revolution, not historically accurate, speaking of;, this gets an 'e' solely because of chapter six which is the porn epilogue i didn't mean to write, you know how anastasia has nothing to do with russian history??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: For as long as she can remember, Evelyn has been wondering about her past. Rescued from Caen aged seven in the days following the imprisonment of the Royal Family, all she has of her past is a golden necklace inscribed with the words, 'Ensemble à Paris'. When, aged twenty-one, she leaves the workhouse where she grew up, she decides on a whim to follow the necklace's promise and meets Joy and Lizzie, two women who believe her to be the lost princess, Ève of France. What she doesn't know, of course, is that her grandmother has a handsome reward for whoever can produce her granddaughter -- and that Joy and Lizzie are not as altruistic as they appear.Or, the F/F BatB Anastasia AU you didn't know you needed.





	1. Chapter 1

_ACT ONE_

_Paris, 1789_

The Bastille has been stormed, and there is rioting in the streets. The King and Queen tried escaping with their family once before, but were apprehended and taken prisoner again. A very few servants remain at Versailles, and a very small family – on the royals side, the King and Queen, the Queen Mother, and their three children Adam, Vincent, and Ève. On the servants side, a small skeleton crew of maids and valets, and the young daughter of the old Royal Engineer who passed away two months earlier. The servants call her ‘little Beauty’, although her given name is Joy. She knows the secret passageways around the castle almost better than her father did – and she also knows that he made a passageway that led directly from their cottage on the very outskirts of the grounds to the lower west wing.

The peasants storm the castle, and while the king and queen resolve to face their fate, along with their two elder sons, they can’t bring themselves to sentence their seven year old daughter or her elderly grandmother. So Ève and her grandmother run around trying to escape, when little Beauty appears literally out of the wall and shoos them inside. Ève drops the Plot Convenience music box as in the film, Belle picks it up but is knocked out before she can join them, and the two royals flee into the night. But before the sun rises the next day, they are separated, never to see each other again.

_Dundee, 1803._

A tall, red-haired woman leaves her childhood workhouse, with instructions to find employment at one of the industrial mills. After looking at her (very valuable) gold necklace, inscribed with the words _Ensemble à Paris_ , she decides ‘nah’, and makes her way to Edinburgh for the sole reason that it is closer than Glasgow. Once there, she tries to bluff her way into a train ticket, but is fobbed off and told to find ‘Joy and Lizzie. They’re good for getting girls to France. Look at the base of the castle.’

Evelyn (Evie for short) duly goes, but something about the landscape seems … familiar. (A diplomatic visit, when she was five. Her mother’s people had been Scots, generations ago, but their political alliance is a powerful memory than anything else. She had danced as best she could, but been tired out after half an hour and put to bed while her brothers kept on laughing through their steps) After a few minutes of polite coughing, she turns and sees two women – one of them is black, in her mid-thirties and looking rather amused to see her. The other is around Ève’s age, white as a sheet apart from her bright red nose and cheeks, with dark brown eyes and hair. She looks pissed)

“Are you here for the –”

“Are you Joy and Lizzie? I was told you could get me to France.”

_Yep,_ Ève thinks. _Definitely pissed._

“How does she look, Joy?” the other woman – Lizzie – asks under her breath.

“Hard to tell under all the dirt,” Joy responds, at normal volume. “So, what’s your name?”

“Evelyn.”

“Surname?”

“Orphan. I was found wandering the streets of Caen back in ‘89, and some Scots rescued me. Well. They rescued me from France, but they put me in a workhouse.”

“Right age,” Joy mutters. “What do you know about the lost princess? Ève of France?”

Evie shrugs. “That she exists? I saw a picture in a broadsheet once, but it was kind of a caricature. Why?”

Joy and Lizzie share a heavy look. “We’re looking for her,” Lizzie says. “And – well, we’ll need to ask some questions – but you’re a dead ringer for her.” She takes out a copy of an old portrait and hands it to Evie. “I think we might have found our match. What do you think? We can get you to France – and if you’re not the right girl, no harm no foul.”

Evie looks back at the dying twilight. She thinks about the life waiting for her in the mills of Dundee. About the life she left behind in the orphanage. And she remembers the inscription – _Ensemble à Paris._

“Alright,” she says. “I’m in.”

* * *

 

The three of them end up wedged in one corner of a large coach, carrying any number of other passengers. Evie looks at the money that Joy and Lizzie hand over, remembers that her own upbringing didn’t exactly foster a sense of morality, and decides not to ask where they got it. Which is good, because it means she needs to talk to Joy less.

Joy is . … kind of a bitch. After the comment about personal hygiene, she had kept looking at Evie critically, as if there was something fundamentally wrong with her face. (Evie knows that workhouse folks aren’t as finely bred as others, but she’s also more than a slightly aware of her own good looks. It’s the first time batting her eyelashes hasn’t worked as a charm, and it’s a touch irritating.) Evie had snapped over nothing (her temper, always her temper, which didn’t help the comments about her red hair) and Lizzie had eventually stepped between them, so she was currently the sandwich between two very pissed-off girls. 

Now, Evie peered over Lizzie’s shoulder to see that Joy was asleep. Her face was gentler when it wasn’t screwed up in a frown, and she actually looked like a woman in her early twenties. Pretty, and almost beautiful – but then Evie remembers how Joy had given as good as she got, and her feelings towards her cooled somewhat. 

“So – can i ask what your deal is?” Evie asked Lizzie. “How did you two meet?”

“I have a lover in Paris; he’s the confidante of the queen mother, and has been trying to find the princess ever since she went missing. When i first met Joy in London, looking for the princess, I thought she was Ève – but I didn’t even know what the girl looked like. My love, my Lumière, he’s not the best at planning ahead.” She sighed nostalgically, her eyes in Paris. “Joy got in contact with him and arranged for a copy of that portrait we showed you. We were following any lead we could – all the seven-year-old girls lost in Paris, who bore the slightest resemblance. We narrowed it down to Scotland eventually, and decided to start in Edinburgh.”

“And you’re just doing it out of the goodness of your heart?” Evie said, raising an eyebrow.

“I can’t help but feel for the woman,” Lizzie shrugged. “To lose children and grandchildren in one fell swoop, at that age … If you are the princess, then even a little bit of family must be a comfort.”

“You really think I’m the princess?”

“I have no reason to doubt it,” Lizzie said. 

The thing is.

Lizzie’s not lying. She’s just not telling the whole truth.

There’s a handsome reward, which even split between her and Joy would make her life much easier. There’s been ten other girls they auditioned for the part, none of whom had quite the right look or the right character to satisfy Joy, who’s really the driving force behind the whole operation.

And then suddenly, a tall redhead in her early twenties, who has a very faint French accent and has little memory before being found _in_ France? One whom Joy had taken one look at and, despite her cold exterior, had practically leapt at to join their party? So this one needs to employ some method acting. For all Lizzie or Joy know – and more to the point, for all Evie or the Queen Mother know – she could be the lost princess.

Lizzie carefully avoids mentioning whether or not Joy believes that Evie is princess Ève.

And as the coach rumbles towards the border, something else, something deep and green and sinister, rumbles awake beneath the turning wheels on the earth.

* * *

 

The coach stops for the night in a small town roughly half an hour from the border. Lizzie, Joy, and Evie are the last three out the carriage, and all three of them take a moment to stretch their aching limbs and regain feeling in their extremities. Joy wrangles their sparse luggage down from the coach, splitting half of it with Lizzie, and marches towards the inn where they’re sleeping that night. Evie follows a moment later – it seems to be a general consensus that they’re not going out of their way to grab attention.

Once in the room, Lizzie excuses herself to use the facilities to wash up a little before the evening meal. As soon as the latch clicks shut, a heavy, dull silence settles over Joy and Evie.

“So,” Evie says, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“We take the post-carriage as far south as we can,” Joy says, not looking at Evie. “At some point we’re going to have to walk on foot for most of the journey, so be aware of that. We only have so much money. we’ll get the ferry over the Channel, and then … well, Lizzie’s the expert on French transport, so she can take it from there.”

“Okay,” Evie says. Reflexively, she begins fiddling with her golden necklace – the pendant itself is hidden beneath her chemise, and the numerous other layers of her dress and winter-wear. Evie knows that it’s nothing short of a miracle that such a valuable trinket has never been stolen. “Early rise, then?”

“Mm-hmm,” Joy says in agreement. “You should wash up if you can, try and get some rest. The princess of France should look her best.”

Evie grits her teeth. “I’m not filthy,” she spits. “And I don’t have – lice, or ticks, or anything else _infectious_ like that! I know I grew up in a workhouse, but I’m not – _we’re_ not unhygienic! Cleanliness is very important.”

(Another memory, this one played out every Sunday – the freezing bath water, changed after fifteen women, then after the next fifteen, and so on. Scrubbing at fingernails and crevices that were never quite free of dirt, no matter how hard Evie tried. The equally cold water of the pump on weekdays, scrubbing at everywhere in reach to keep clean as best she could. The accusations of vanity by her superiors for trying to wash her hair every other day, which led to it being cut. Evie’s hair had been shorn short to the scalp more times than she could count.)

Joy looks at her. “I’m sorry … Princess. I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” Evie can see that Joy is also fiddling with something – something in her pocket, fairly large judging from the shape under the fabric. “How do you – I don’t mean to be rude –”

“That’ll be a first,” Evie mutters.

“–but how do you know the word ‘unhygienic’?” Joy continues.

Evie blinks. “I read it. I was one of the few girls who could read, so I would sometimes be allowed to read one of the books the superiors had.”

“Really?” Joy asks, hunching over and shuffling on her bed so that she’s a little closer to Evie. “I love to read – what did you have?”

And so Lizzie came back half an hour later, fearing that the two women had murdered each other, and instead finding them laughing and debating various fiction and non-fiction books. Joy promised to introduce Evie to the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, and Evie shared her opinions on the few works of Austen which she had been able to sneak peeks at.

Meanwhile, deep green shoots across the land. it follows the coach to the inn, follows the girls to the room, and hears them talk, and talk, and talk until they fall asleep. It slinks down, down, down into the kitchen, where the exhausted cook is winding down for the night. She shuts the door and joins her husband the innkeeper in their rooms.

A cinder falls from the dying fireplace, still red-hot. Another falls, and another. finally, the deep green manages to land one on the small pile of broadsheets which the coach driver had given to the innkeeper that evening.

The paper lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, whaddup, this was something i originally wrote and posted on tumblr. I eventually want to properly edit and rewrite it, but I wanted it to go up on the ao3 at some point, and this way you get the closest to how it originally was (albeit with proper grammar and capitalisation). 
> 
> original posts plus extras such as faceclaims (eleanor tomlinson for ève, jenna coleman for joy) on my tumblr /tagged/anastasia-au


	2. Chapter 2

_ACT TWO_

It doesn’t occur to Joy that the only reason she hadn’t burned in her bed is because Evie was such a light sleeper until noon, two days after the fire. The shock has worn off of them all by then, having hitched rides with different post-carriages enough for them to finally feel safe. Lizzie is dozing, and Evie is writing out some details they’d told her about Princess Ève to try and start ‘recovering her memory’. Joy palms the music box in her pocket again – the one memento she has of the _real_ Princess Ève, the little girl who must have gotten separated from the Queen Mother despite Joy’s best efforts to keep her alive – and remembers the fire. 

Her father always said the best way to remember the past was to recollect, but not relive. It’s difficult advice. She remembers this because she was dreaming about him again at the time; he had passed suddenly of a heart attack, and as such her last memories of him were happy, even peaceful. Her father had been calling her by name one second – the next, it was Evie screaming and shaking her shoulders. Joy had dressed herself quickly, banging on doors as the three girls tried to escape. Something about the fire unsettled her, even though it was a perfectly usual cause – a cinder falling off the hearth and igniting some papers. 

Textbook. Too textbook. 

(The deep green had seethed, but slunk away regardless. It was a long journey from the borders of Scotland to those of France. There would be plenty of time yet.)

Evie sets aside her pencil for a moment, and just looks straight at Joy. It’s a look almost naked in its plaintiveness, and Joy is forcibly reminded once again that no matter whether or not this girl did spend her first seven years in the lap of luxury, the next fourteen were dictated by hardship and loneliness. Joy glances at Lizzie on the bench opposite, and then scoots over so that she’s beside Evie. An acceptably platonic distance is maintained.

“Dare I ask?” Joy teases.

Evie flushes, and it does nothing except make her even prettier. “I just – you don’t have to answer, but – how did you and Lizzie meet?”

Joy decides on part of the truth. “I was in London. I’d been living there since I was fourteen, and I would have been about twenty at the time. I had … fallen in with a bad crowd, and –” she stops at Ève’s expression, which is carefully guarded. “Oh, hell,” she mutters. There’s something about Ève’s face that compels Joy to trust her, even if it’s against her better judgement. “I was a pickpocket,” she said quietly, in case the driver could hear them. “A pretty good one, too. I tried stealing from Lizzie, but she caught me red-handed. She knew she needed somebody who knew the country, and when she mentioned a chance to help _my_ country …” Joy shrugged. “I don’t want the monarchy back, but there’s something reassuring about the kind of fairytale ending we’re hoping for.”

“Sounds awfully cynical of you,” Evie says. She fiddles with something attached to the chain around her neck, the one she never lifts over her chemise, and Joy suddenly feels an urge to correct Ève’s impression of her.

“Nothing of the sort,” she murmurs. “I love fairy stories.”

There is a moment – a brief, shining moment – when Joy wonders if Evie really is the princess. The hair, the eyes, something about her tone of voice. The next moment, it’s gone. Joy still believes in fairy stories, but there’s not enough magic on the planet to reunite a lost princess with her doting grandmother (with the help of a plucky servant girl, of course) after fourteen years apart. 

“Now,” Joy says, straightening up, “Let’s run through it again. You were born?”

“In a palace by the sea,” Evie dutifully replies. “Rode horseback when i was only three.”

“You’re going to have to stop the rhyming as mnemonic if you want to sound natural,” Joy says. 

“And the horse was white,” Lizzie chimes in, her eyes still shut.

Evie rolls her eyes. 

After the coach drops them off, they begin their journey on foot along the highways. Since they don’t have to watch their language anymore, Lizzie and Joy take it in turns to grill Evie on distant relatives, events which she could plausibly remember, and any number of small mannerisms which a French royal would be expected to know.

“If the bag falls off, you aren’t doing it right!” Lizzie says again, after roughly five days of walking. Ève’s posture is very straight once she remember to do it – the problem is that she always reverts back to shuffling while she walks. “You have to float, not walk!”

To her credit, Evie picks the bag up again and places it on her head. After thirty paces of it wobbling precariously, she says, “I feel a little foolish. am I floating?”

“Like a sinking boat,” Joy mutters under a smirk. The next second the wind is knocked out of her as Evie whips the bag off her head and throws it at Joy’s stomach. “Nice aim, Your Highness,” she coughs. “Now about that Uncle Louis.”

“Thank you,” Evie says, taking it back and resuming the posture exercise. “Um, let me see … he was my father’s second cousin thrice removed, with a large moustache. At a dinner party, he once brought his cat with him and it wreaked havoc over the dining room. It was a nasty thing – bright yellow, and it always _hissed_.”

“Correct,” Joy says. “And his wife?”

The long string of correct information about five relatives and eight state events which Evie parrots back is so impressive, that both Joy and Lizzie completely forget that neither of them told Evie what the colour or temperament of Louis’ cat was.

* * *

 

By the time they reach Dover, the snow that had been falling intermittently for most of February has finally melted. Evie had gotten into more than one snowball fight with Joy on the road down (she’s still yet to win more than one, and Joy swears it was only because Evie had the element of surprise), and she’s a little sad that the winter is officially over. Not too sad, since spring is her favourite season by far, but she’s always loved the snow.

(When she was little, so little that Ève wouldn’t remember even if she didn’t have amnesia, she used to run into snowdrifts regularly. Her brothers would dunk her in deep snow during breaks in _their_ snowball fights, and she would shriek with cold and delight. Her father was always concerned that she would develop hypothermia, and would bundle her up in towels and blankets as soon as he could snatch her away from her brothers, who would continue to fight with their mother. As his only living daughter, she was her father’s favourite.)

The further south they go, the heavier the reality of the situation becomes. Evie finds herself experiencing déjà-vu at the oddest moments – a tabby cat, feral little thing, becomes her uncle Louis’ cat. A broken glass in a heaving inn sounds like the chandeliers in the ballroom being hoisted up, when the servants were in a rush. And Joy – there’s something familiar about Joy, naggingly so, but Evie can’t put her finger on it. _Probably nothing,_ she thinks, and sticks to books and women’s rights. What she used to think of as ‘bitchy’ qualities have changed to ones to emulate – Joy’s forthrightness, her clear mind, her refusal to stand down in an argument. (Her dark eyes and gleaming hair have changed as well – as the sun stays in the sky for longer, Ève notices copper highlights in Joy’s hair, and flecks of green in her irises)

Lizzie, by contrast, seems to float the closer they get to dover. Evie hears more about her lover, Lumière – and their friend Cogsworth, who has lived with them for many years now. Lumière, it turns out, is the man they are preparing all of the trivia for. As the Queen Mother’s confidante, he has been put in charge of vetting whoever claims to be the Princess. The knowledge becomes more obscure, but the answers come more readily to Ève’s mouth now. Once or twice, Lizzie has looked mildly surprised at the details she offers, but never elaborates.

They arrive in Dover eventually, and immediately settle their things on the ferry. Joy leaves after fifteen minutes, muttering something under her breath that Evie can’t quite hear, but Lizzie merely smirks when asked what Joy said. Evie shrugs, and settles down to writing what she can remember. Now that they’re leaving the island she grew up on, she can’t help but feel nervous. Lizzie and Joy have staked lots of money on the assertion that she is the lost princess. There’s no going back now.

“Ève!” Joy says.

“Good evening,” Ève smiles, curtseying exactly the way she was taught. “What’s that?” she asks, looking at a small bundle of fabric in Joy’s arms.

“It’s, uh – a present,” Joy says, pressing it into Ève’s hands. “A dress. I thought it might be nice for you to have something – er, nice – to wear into Paris.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Should i try it on?”

“Please!” Joy laughs, her voice breaking slightly. “I’ll be on deck – we still need to teach you how to waltz.”

Ève enters the cabin, the dress still light in her arms. Shedding her old, practical skirt and blouse is the work of a moment, and lacing up the new dress takes barely any time. She glances in the mirror, and notices that while the dress itself is neat and clean, her hair is a mess – although pinned up as always, it is falling apart and more than a little tangled. For reasons which even the purchase of a new dress can’t justify, Ève brushes out her hair, and ties it back with a ribbon which came with the dress. She hasn’t worn her hair so loose in years, and she carefully tucks a stray lock away from her face before joining Lizzie and Joy on deck.

The sun is setting, turning the clouds pink and gold, when Ève steps up. Joy turns to look at her, and the world seems to stop.

The dress is a deep, royal blue, with some simple gold embroidery on the neck, hem, and cuffs. It’s a modest cut, and while certainly the finest thing Ève had ever worn, really just a day-dress for a middle-class woman. But the colour brings out Ève’s eyes, piercing and solemn and mirthful all at once. The neckline is low enough that the necklace she always wears is visible, the chain catching the light of the dying sun. And her hair, that glorious mane, is tied back only loosely with a ribbon. In the sunset it blazes like fire.

Joy walks over, somehow without tripping on her own feet. “You look nice,” she manages.

“Thank you,” Ève replies. It may be her imagination, but Joy could swear that Ève seems shy. “So, who’s teaching me to waltz?”

Joy holds out her hands. “I know how to lead,” she says, “and I don’t trust any of the men here to behave themselves.”

Ève rolls her eyes, before slipping her hands into Joy’s. They’re warm, and Joy squeezes her fingers reflexively. “Joy, i grew up in Dundee. I know how to take care of myself.” They stand for a moment, before Ève cocks her head. “So, the waltz?”

Joy places one of Ève’s hands on her shoulder. With purpose, she slips her own free hand around Ève’s waist.

Ève makes a little gulping noise which Joy personally finds adorable. Her own nerves at feeling Ève’s torso expand and contract with her breaths, however, are probably just as bad. “So it’s a step back, and two to the side,” she says quietly. “And then again, to the front this time.” Soon enough, they’re spinning across the deck. Ève looks up from her feet to Joy’s face. Suddenly bold, Joy spins her out, and then back in again. Ève laughs, and she does it again. But this time, they end up closer together. Joy’s hand is splayed across the small of Ève’s back, and she can feel Ève’s fingers curled around the base of her neck.

“I’m getting a little dizzy,” Ève says eventually, her voice low.

“Probably all the spinning,” Joy says. “We should stop.”

“We have stopped,” Ève murmurs, her eyes still gazing into Joy’s. Not only have they stopped spinning, they’ve now stopped dancing altogether. “But i’m still dizzy.”

Joy’s heart is beating so loudly it’s almost painful. she pulls Ève half a step closer, so that they’re practically flush together. Ève begins to bend her neck, ever so slightly.

A loud crash of thunder breaks them apart a respectable distance. Ève turns to look in the direction of the noise, but Joy notices Lizzie looking at them. Her expression is impossible to read. She would ask about it, but the captain sends all passengers below deck to wait out the storm. Once there, the three of them undress hastily, and settle in their respective berths with little fanfare. Although Lizzie and Ève are soon asleep, Joy can only stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, replaying that brief moment before the thunder crashed over and over in her mind.

The deep green lazily swirls down from the thundercloud. It passes over the deck, slinking below and into the cabin area. After two wrong guesses, it finds Ève, Lizzie, and Joy. It hovers for a moment, waiting for the moment to strike. Ève’s mouth opens silently, and the deep green slithers in on her next breath.

* * *

 

Ève is in a ballroom. It’s longer than it is wide, and also completely empty. She turns around, looking for somebody, and she finds herself in a dress. It’s heavy and old-fashioned, green velvet so dark it looks black and studded with tiny crystals everywhere. It swishes around her ankles, and juts out sharply from her hips at either side. As Ève turns, dancers appear and fill the floor – all men, all dressed in white. She glances from side to side – not afraid, but curious. Music begins to play, a sprightly tune on a harpsichord. The men bow, she curtseys (perfectly, without having to think about it like she does during her waking hours), and in the next instant they are dancing.

One of the dancers takes her hand, (she stretches it out into space, she sits up and swings her legs onto the floor) and they begin to dance swiftly (she stumbles towards the door carefully – something green twists the lock, and she steps through).

Ève spins from one dancer to the next. It’s effortless, and fun, and it’s like floating. Her feet follow steps that she could only know in dreams. And then, in the way of dreams, the dancers melt away and the scene changes. She’s in a library, and a book is on a high shelf. An ornate ladder stands in front of her, and Ève begins to climb up. (She climbs up the ladder to the deck. Her bare feet slip on the rungs, but she manages to clamber up. The hatch slams shut with a loud bang)

(The sound of the hatch shutting manages to wake Joy, against the odds. Her eyes shoot open, and for a moment she’s unsure why she’s awake. The ship is still swaying wildly in the storm, and Joy is thankful that they don’t have to sleep in hammocks – she would instantly fall out of those. She turns to look at Lizzie and Ève. In the dim candlelight, she can see that Ève’s bed is empty. Frowning, Joy tiptoes out of bed, grabbing a shawl, and creeps into the hall.)

Ève reaches the top of the ladder, but instead of finding a shelf she’s in a tower. It opens onto an interconnected rooftop area, with turrets and platforms and walkways. She can see something at the top of the tower she’s in, and she begins to climb the stairs. (The ship’s deck, tossing and turning, is difficult to get a firm footing on. Ève somehow keeps her balance, as she walks closer to the side of the ship)

(Joy remembers the noise that woke her, and hurries to the hatch. The deep green clutches at her ankle, and she falls to the ground in a heap when the ship tips. Joy pulls herself to the ladder, clambering up it and shoving up the hatch. A wave of freezing wind and ice-cold rain hits her in the face, and for a moment Joy is blinded.)

Ève is at the top of the tower now. She can see the grounds extending around her, as far as the eye can see. It’s like no place she’s ever been before. Standing on a parapet is a woman in an old green cloak. “Come up and join me, Ève,” she says. “It’s a lovely view.” Ève grabs the wall for support (she grabs a rope, thick and taut), and hops onto the parapet (pulls herself onto the thin railing.)

(Joy wipes the water from her eyes and sees a figure in a white dress with flaming hair standing on the railing. “Ève!” she screams, and lunges out of the hatch towards the girl. Ève’s feet slip on the railing, but she doesn’t let go of the rope yet.)

“It really is lovely,” Ève says. She doesn’t wonder what the woman is doing – dreams are often strange. “I feel like I could reach out and touch it.”

(She extends an arm into the black abyss of sea and storm. Joy slips on the deck and falls again, still screaming Ève’s name.)

“Let go of the wall,” the woman says, her skin beginning to glow. “I’ve got you.”

(Ève hesitates.) 

(Joy pulls herself up and runs.)

Ève lets go of the rope.

Joy screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No quotations from 'Anastasia', either the film or the musical, belong to me. (Obviously)


	3. Chapter 3

_ ACT THREE _

The ship hits another swell of water, and tips to the other side. Ève begins falling towards the dark, dark, sea, but before she can fall completely Joy grabs her around the waist and the two of them fall hard onto the deck. They’re tangled together, white limbs interlocking, hair whipping across their faces, and Ève’s eyes shoot open as she screams.

“I’ve got you! I’ve got you, Ève!” Joy says, pressing Ève’s face into her collarbone. “It’s alright, it’s alright. You were sleepwalking. You’re alright.”

Ève is shaking. The storm begins to calm around them, although it’s still night. “I was – I almost –”

“I’ve got you,” Joy says. She tugs her shawl until it covers both of them, the stinking wool keeping them slightly warmer. She pulls them upwards, an amalgamation of women draped in soaked hair and fibres. “Come on, let’s get back to the cabin, get you out of those wet things.”

They struggle back to the cabin, and manage to change and go to bed without waking Lizzie. After half an hour of tossing and turning, Ève carefully steps over Lizzie, and settles down with Joy, back to back. They sleep soundly, and wake up in a port in Caen.

* * *

 

Lizzie takes a deep breath as soon as she exits the cabin, practically glowing in the pale sunlight. She lets it out slowly, savouring the breath, and Ève would almost laugh if it wasn’t for a) the fact that what happened last night still has her knees wobbling, and b) not only is this Lizzie and Joy’s home country – it’s maybe hers as well. They walk down the gangplank, hefting their luggage as they go, and Lizzie spins in a slow circle once she reaches the ground, her arms open wide as she drinks in the atmosphere. 

“Home,” she breathes. “I’m almost home! And you could not  _ pay _ me to go back to England again!”

The other passengers glare at her a little, but as she’s speaking French now it’s clear they don’t completely understand what she’s saying. Joy laughs and tugs at the back of Lizzie’s cloak. 

“Liz, you said you were organising transport?”

She settles back down into her body a little and goes to ask one of the boys milling around for directions to the nearest coach. Meanwhile, Joy rests her hand on Ève’s shoulder, and suddenly Ève is face-to-face with her again. “Are you alright, Ève?” she asks.

“A little tired,” she says. “Other than that, just nervous. You said we’re meeting Lumière once we get to Paris? And he’s the man I have to convince?”

“You don’t have to convince him – you  _ are _ the princess,” Joy says. For the first time, she feels a slight twinge in her gut at the lie. She dispels the thought – there’s no reason why the princess  _ couldn’t _ grow up to look like Ève, and she’s memorised everything she could possibly need to know – and squeezes Ève’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine – my lady,” she tacks on with a wink.

To her surprise, Ève shudders a little. “I don’t – I know I might be her, but it feels wrong to take up a title, especially given the political situation.”

Joy is surprised once again. She really shouldn’t be, she thinks. Underestimating Ève has never gone well, historically. “As you wish,” she says instead. “Oh, look – there’s Lizzie with the coach. Come on, let’s go!”

Three days later – three days of intense preparation and nervousness – they’re in Paris. Ève is relieved to find that her nightmare has kept away, and she only has her usual sleeplessness to deal with. Since that night on the boat, she sleeps closer to Joy – while not especially significant, her sleep is deeper and more restful beside Joy’s bulk than it is on her own. Finally, it’s the day she’s to meet Lumière. She wears the blue dress again, brushes her hair till it shines and carefully pins it up into a low bun. She weaves the ribbon through a lock of hair, right at the heart of the bun and unseen by anybody who might look. Her heart is beating as if it’ll burst through her chest. Joy takes her hand, and presses it gently – her fingers, always a touch cool, are comforting. 

Lizzie, Joy, and Ève walk purposefully up the streets, until Lizzie finds the house she’s looking for. The two women turn back to look at her. 

“Ève,” Lizzie says, and claps her on the shoulder. “Whatever happens – you’re in Paris now. Nobody can take that away from you.”

“You’ll blow them away,” Joy says. 

Ève takes a moment. fumbles for her necklace.  _ Ensemble à Paris _ . A promise she’s believed for fourteen years. “I’m ready,” she says. 

As soon as Lizzie walks up the garden path, the door shoots open. A tall man with blue eyes, a small brown moustache, and a snow-white wig bounds down the path in three eager steps. 

“Plumette! you’re back!” he cries, clasping Lizzie’s hands in his. 

“Lumière,” she honest-to-god  _ purrs _ . “It’s been too long.”

The man – Lumière – bends down to drop several kisses on Lizzie’s hand, while she tenderly strokes his face with the other. They’re talking softly, when Lumière suddenly straightens up and notices Joy and Ève. 

“And this must be the famous Joy!” he says, walking over to her and shaking her hand vigorously. “I’ve heard a lot about you – so nice to finally meet in the flesh.”

“Likewise,” Joy bows politely. “Monsieur –” 

“Non, please, call me Lumière –”

“This is Ève,” Lizzie says. Instantly, his whole demeanour changes. Still a friendly man, but one now on his guard. He walks over to Ève, who struggles very hard to stand up straight and not shrink beneath his gaze. 

“The elusive Ève?” he asks, already lifting his hand to shake it. 

“Charmed, Monsieur Lumière,” Ève says. She lifts her hand so that it can be kissed.

Without skipping a beat, Lumière takes it and kisses it with a flourish. “Intriguing,” he says to himself. “Well! come in, come in. I suppose we should start with some questions.”

Ève surprises herself by floating forwards, exactly as practised. Head held high, shoulders back, spine straight. They settle in the drawing room – Lumière offers tea, and Ève takes a cup. 

(“Weak, milky, one sugar,” Joy says two days after the fire. “Remember that. You can’t practice drinking it like that right now, since we don’t have the money, but remember it.”)

It’s surprisingly nice, but Ève keeps that opinion to herself. Lumière makes a note in a small pad of paper he has on the table. Joy takes a spot standing by the fireplace – Ève can just see her out the corner of her eye, but not if she concentrates on Lumière. 

“So,” he says. “Where were you born?”

Ève answers all of the questions he asks. Joy doesn’t dare look over after the first five, in case she jinxes her somehow.  _ So close, so close, _ she thinks. It’s not even about a con anymore. She wants Ève to find a family, even if it’s not really hers. Joy stands until the sun sets, too intent on the interview to notice her aching feet. 

“Alright – one final question,” Lumière says. “It is a little unorthodox, but you understand why I have to ask it. How did you escape from Versailles, all those years ago?”

Joy sags against the mantlepiece imperceptibly. Lizzie isn’t in her line of sight, but Joy can tell her reaction is similar. All those weeks and months of preparing, and they never thought to prepare her for the one question that only the princess would know. The one question, Joy thinks bitterly, that only  _ she _ and the Queen Mother know the answer to. Ève is silent – probably trying to think of a response. 

“There – there was a girl,” she says slowly. 

Joy freezes.  _ It can’t be. _

“A servant girl,” Ève says. “She opened – she came out of the  _ wall. _ Pushed me inside – and – and told me to run …”

Joy turns her head to look at Ève. The music box in her pocket has never felt heavier than it does at that precise moment, watching Ève press her hands to her head as if in pain. “I –I’m sorry, that’s crazy. Girls opening holes in the wall …”

Lumière offers a platitude, but Joy can’t hear it. She jerks her head at Lizzie, and the two of them leave for the hall. 

“She did well,” Lizzie sighs. “A shame about the last question, but –”

“She’s the princess, Liz,” Joy says. 

“You can drop the act now.”

“No, I mean it!” Joy pulls Lizzie further away from the door. “The girl she mentioned – the girl who opened the wall? That was  _ me _ . I was in a servant’s passage my father had built, and I ushered the princess and the Queen Mother through. The princess – she dropped something.  _ This.” _ Joy pulls the music box out of her pocket. “I’ve held onto this for fourteen years, Liz. Fourteen years as an emblem of the one life I saved, and the one life I couldn’t. And now it turns out she  _ is _ alive, and she’s  _ right next door _ .”

Lizzie looks at Joy, speechless. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

It’s a dumb move and Joy knows it, and Lizzie frowns at her. “Don’t play coy with me, Joy. I saw the way you looked at each other when you were dancing. And don’t act as if it’s purely platonic, either. You and I both know that’s blatant lie when it comes to people like us.”

Joy shrugs, putting the music box back in her pocket. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Princesses don’t marry servants girls in real life, just fairy tales. The way I see it, my priority is getting her an audience with the Queen Mother. She deserves to find her family again.”

At that moment, the door to the living room opens. Ève looks a little unwell, still, and Joy is hit by a wave of confusing and conflicting emotions. Lumière, on the other hand, looks exuberant. 

“I can’t get you a formal appointment with the Queen Mother. I told Ève already, but her heart cannot take another high hope.  _ However _ ,” he adds, “I  _ can _ tell you that she will be at tonight’s ballet of  _ La Belle et La Bête _ – and that I can have three shiny tickets waiting for you at the office.”

“Until tonight, then,” Joy says. 

“Until tonight,” Ève and Lizzie echo.

“Au revoir,” Lumière waves fondly as they stroll back up the garden path.


	4. Chapter 4

_ ACT FOUR _

To Joy’s surprise, Ève begs out of exploring the city in the few hours they have left to kill. Instead, she heads back to their hotel room alone, after downright insisting that Joy and Lizzie go and leave her for at least half the afternoon. So as soon as they’re alone again, Lizzie starts hounding Joy about her responses in Lumière’s hallway. 

“So you  _ do _ like her,” Lizzie says. 

“Yes – did I not make that clear already?” Joy replies. “I bought her a bloody  _ dress _ , Liz. I’m completely, pathetically infatuated with yet another woman who’ll never love me back. satisfied?”

“I might be, but you’re certainly not,” Lizzie says. “And I wouldn’t be so sure about it being unrequited.”

Joy opens her mouth to retort, but remembers the waltz. Remembers Ève’s little nervous gulp, and her smile – remembers all her smiles, which were coming from something Joy did more and more frequently. Remembers that moment before the storm, when for half a dizzying second Joy thought that Ève was going to kiss her.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s requited or not,” Joy sighs. “At the end of the day, Ève’s about to start a new life – one that doesn’t have a place for me. It would be reprehensible to try and insert myself in where I don’t belong.” Lizzie frowns, but Joy keeps talking before she can interrupt. “What about you? What are you and Lumière going to do after this? And Cogsworth?”

Lizzie shrugs. “I don’t know. But for once, that’s not a bad thing. They’ve been posing as cousins for so long, I don’t think anybody would be startled if one of them got married.”

Joy nods sympathetically. She understands the basics of their relationship – that Lizzie and Lumière are together, and so are Lumière and Cogsworth. How it started, or how they perpetuate it she doesn’t understand – but at the same time, it’s not her business, either. “Will that not be … difficult?” she asks carefully. “To live a lie like that?”

“Only half a lie,” Lizzie says with practised ease. “I am like a wife to Lumière. Cogsworth is like a brother-in-law to me. The only false aspect is Lumière and Cogsworth’s relationship – and it isn’t exactly unusual for a man to reside with his family if he has no other claims on his heart – or his purse.” She clasps Joy’s shoulder. “I know you’re worried about me hurting. But believe me, Joy – my hurt is finally over now that the three of us can live together in happiness.”

“I’m glad,” Joy says, and she means it. “Now, come on – you said you were going to give me a proper tour of Paris.”

As promised, they return to the hotel after a few hours, having spent time browsing book shops and the odd cafe. Ève pops her head out the door, her smile as bright as ever. “Did you have a good time in town?” she asks. 

“I got a new book,” Joy says. 

“Oh, that sounds lovely!” Ève says. “I’ll leave you to it in a moment, but could you pop in here for a second, please?”

Joy exchanges a look with Lizzie, but she looks just as bewildered. “Of course,” she says. The door clicks shut behind her, and Joy notices that the room is artificially dark – the curtains have been drawn, and candles recently extinguished, judging by the smell. “Ève, are you alright?”

“Of course,” she says. “I just – well, I have a surprise.” There is a warm hands in hers, suddenly, and Joy lets herself be guided towards the centre of the room. “I was thinking about that beautiful dress you bought for me, and – well, I wanted to do something for you in return.”

“Oh, Ève, you don’t have to –”

“I know I don’t; I want to. Now hush.” Her hands move to Joy’s shoulders, and Joy is  _ acutely _ aware of Ève’s warm breath stirring the hairs on the back of her neck. “I found a dress for next to nothing in a shop next door, and I’ve been altering it slightly all afternoon. It’s a few years out of fashion, but the colour is beautiful and I think it’ll fit you perfectly. I just need to make some final adjustments – but for that I need, well,  _ you _ . and I was wondering – I’d really like it to be a surprise, so if I cover your eyes would that be alright?”

“Of course,” Joy manages to choke out. “I trust you.”

Sure enough, Ève slides a ribbon over Joy’s eyes. She ties it carefully and then moves away – Joy can  _ just _ tell from the light peeking underneath that she’s opening the curtains and lighting the candles. She unlaces Joy’s skirt and bodice, leaving her in her underthings, and Joy feels suddenly electric – as if she could burst into a million pieces, if she was touched in the right way. Ève messes around with her stays, pulling them a little tighter, and then another skirt and bodice are sliding onto Joy. She does her best to hold still as Ève keeps working, but she can’t stop herself from feeling what she can – a layered skirt, a ruched bodice, and no sleeves. Eventually, Ève unties the blindfold. The first thing Joy sees is her face, a smile of satisfaction wide across. The next thing she sees is her own reflection, enveloped in a sunshine-yellow dress. 

Joy gasps. “Ève, this is … it’s beautiful. Thank you.” She meets Ève’s gaze – and there it is again, the dizzying possibility of a kiss between them. Ève’s eyes dart from her lips to Joy’s face. She brushes her fingers against Joy’s hand, but otherwise doesn’t move. All Joy would have to do is lean forwards. 

She takes a step back, running her hands over the dress lightly. “Well, Princess – are you ready for tonight?”

Ève’s hand recoils away, although her face is inexpressive. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says. “I’ll get dressed, and then –” She cuts herself off. Looks at her hands.

“And then,” Joy finishes quietly, “you meet your family.”

* * *

 

The ballet is a blur.

Ève knows the story, which helps a little. It’s difficult to parse exactly what the dancers are trying to say to each other, hidden as the words are in a musical score and pure body language, but the gist of the story is evident. The curtain falls for the interval after the Beast’s solo lament (according to the programme, he is wondering what might happen if he can’t love her), ending with him running into the woods to follow the fleeing beauty, and Joy taps Ève’s shoulder.

“Lumière says it’s time,” she whispers. 

Ève’s stomach lurches unpleasantly, but it’s too late now. She follows Joy out of their seats (Lumière had snagged them and Lizzie a box), and towards the box where the Queen Mother is. Where … where her grandmother is. 

“Wait here,” Joy says. “I’ll go in first, prepare the way.”

So Ève waits. But the door doesn’t quite shut all the way, so she keeps an ear out for how the conversation goes. And she hears everything. Just as suddenly as she felt sick, her insides turn to lead. And following on from that, a ball of anger begins to form in her heart. 

The guards push Joy out the door, firmly but without violence. She trips on the hem of her dress, and ends up on her hands and knees in front of the hemline of a familiar royal-blue skirt. She meets Ève’s gaze, and she looks completely apologetic, and completely ashamed. It just adds fuel to Ève’s fire. 

“Ève …” Joy says as she stands. 

“You lied to me,” she says flatly. “This whole time, you were lying to me.”

“No!” Joy says. “At – at the beginning, yes I – I lied, but then –”

“So you  _ did _ lie,” Ève spits. “You knew this  _ whole _ time that there was a reward! You  _ knew _ that others had posed as the princess! You – you  _ used _ me!” She walks to the stairs, but Joy reaches out and grabs her arm.

“Ève – Ève wait, it’s not like that – Ève you  _ are _ the princess, I can prove it –” she says as she rummages around in her pocket.

“Get away from me!” Ève shouts. She tugs her arm out of Joy’s grasp, but Joy seizes her hand instead. 

“Ève,  _ wait _ –”

She slaps Joy in the face, the noise ringing in the halls. Joy brings her hand to her cheek slowly, abandoning her search for whatever was in her pockets. But Ève doesn’t stay to look at Joy longer. She picks up her skirts and runs back to the waiting coach as fast as she can, willing herself not to cry until she’s safely in her hotel room.

* * *

 

Joy is waiting outside the opera house, a borrowed cloak from Lizzie hiding the bright colour of her gown. She feels worse than dead. Ève’s chance at finding her family has been ruined. Because of her.

Well, she’s going to fix that. 

She waits for the Queen Mother to leave the opera house. She waits while the driver settles on his post. She waits while he gets the horses moving to a trot, as they leave the other coaches. 

And then, she strikes. She runs full tilt towards the horses, frightening them. She kicks the driver’s knee and uses his momentum to push him out the seat. And then she whips the horses until they gallop, and she sets course for the hotel where Ève is. 

“Pierre? Pierre, slow down!”

Joy pulls down the divider, and sees a flash of Ève’s blue eyes in an old, wrinkled face. “I’m not Pierre. And I will  _ not _ slow down.”

The Queen Mother shouts, and rams her cane against the inside of the carriage, but she’s effectively trapped, so Joy ignores her. Once they reach the hotel, she hops down from the driver’s perch and opens the door, blocking the Queen Mother’s way. 

“Young woman, I made it perfectly clear what I thought of your actions back at the ballet. I will  _ not _ see some actress you have hired to dupe an old woman!”

“I’m not asking you to,” Joy says. “Ève honestly believes she’s the princess. I do too. And I can prove it.”

“Show me these proofs, then,” she laughs bitterly. “Her father’s hair? Or her mother’s chin? Or – let me guess – my eyes?”

“No. Just this.” Joy sets her jaw, and takes the music box out of her pocket. 

Instantly, the old woman’s demeanour changes. She stretches out her fingers, and Joy folds them around the box. They’re warm, like Ève’s are. “Where did you get this?” she asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joy says. “What does matter, is that there is a girl upstairs who I honestly believe, with all my heart, to be your granddaughter. I know you’ve been hurt. All I ask is for you to take one more chance, and see Ève.”

* * *

 

Ève is half-undressed, her bodice tossed to the floor and her hair spiralling out of its pins, when she hears a knock at the door. “Piss off, Joy,” she shouts. “I told you, I don’t want to see you!”

“I’m not Joy,” an older woman says. Ève turns around with a start. “And I will not ‘piss off’.”

“Milady,” Ève gasps, automatically curtseying. “I thought you were … someone else.”

The Queen Mother sniffs, and walks towards Ève. She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, but otherwise doesn’t move while the woman walks around her. “Remarkable hair,” she murmurs. “And – well, that  _ is _ an unusual chin.”

Ève touches it reflexively. Her head aches, and the woman’s peppermint scent isn’t helping. Her fingers sink down to her necklace, and she fiddles with the pendant. “Peppermint,” she mutters. 

“Child, where did you get that necklace?” the woman asks. “It looks very –”

“There was … a bottle of peppermint scent. I was – Adam and Vincent and I were playing with swords … dragons and princesses and knights. I knocked the bottle off the dresser and – and it smashed.” She sways a little. 

The Queen Mother takes half a step backwards.

“The scent stained the carpet, and Maman sent me to bed without supper for a week, because … it was expensive. Not easily replaced.”

The woman’s face turns white, and she reaches abortively for Ève’s hand. 

Ève frowns, trying to remember the connection. It’s so close, so close she can almost feel it. “Mémé had to go away to Spain for a visit, but I would – go to that room, and just smell the carpet. It smelled like – like  _ you.” _

Hot tears fall down Ève’s face. She looks at the Queen Mother. “Oh,” the woman says, and she’s also crying. “Oh, Ève. Little wren, have you come back to me after all these years?”

“Mémé – I – I remember!” Ève cries, and the two crash into an embrace.


	5. Chapter 5

_ ACT FIVE _

The next week is a blur — a happy one, but also overwhelming in its intensity. Through it all, Ève can only focus on a few facts at a time. Some of these facts are known to the general public; the majority of them are not. 

The facts were these:

Evelyn Lee, renamed at an orphanage after being found wandering barefoot in Caen in mid-January of 1790, never existed. Instead, Princess Marie-Nicolette Isabelle Geneviève Heloise, third and youngest child of the late king and queen, escaped Versailles with her grandmother two months before her parents and eldest brother Vincent were executed. They were running for the boat, which was overloaded with people fleeing. The gangplank was slippery and the boat was already drifting out to sea. The Queen Mother and Ève were the last two people to board, and at the last moment the Queen Mother slipped. The gangplank fell from the ship’s end; the Queen Mother was grabbed under the arms by the sailor standing nearby; Ève, seven years old and petrified, held tight onto her grandmother’s hand (she would have broken her arm before letting go of her granddaughter); instead, her shoulder dislocated from the stress on the joint, and Ève slipped into the sea as easily as a seal. 

Her grandmother screamed for the boat to turn back. They couldn’t. (Wouldn’t? To aid the escape of a monarch’s family is a thankless and dangerous task.) Just before the harbour became nothing more than a series of little lights, the Queen Mother saw a flash of red hair on the water, a splashing that indicated someone in distress. She could do nothing but pray.   
While her mother, father, and Vincent’s bodies (and heads) are all accounted for, Adam vanished off the face of the earth sometime between their parent’s first escape attempt and their deaths. Mèmè says that he died in that interim period, but something nags at Ève about that explanation.

Neither Mémé nor Ève are identified in the newspapers as being part of the now-defunct monarchy, which suits both of them just fine. Instead, the story is that of a society belle reunited with her grandchild after they got separated in a cruel twist of fate at the docks; a granddaughter of a proper age who will make her debut in a ball on Saturday night. The truth, but not the whole truth. Ève has become accustomed to such half-lies now.

Speaking of half-lies, Ève doesn’t see Joy or Lizzie for the entirety of that week. Joy eventually shows up on the Saturday morning, and Ève only sees her because she was coming out of Mémé’s study. She’s in the sensible dark blue skirt she was wearing back in Edinburgh, when they first met, complete with her slightly worn-out brown jacket. 

“Joy,” she says, frozen. 

Joy’s face goes through a series of complicated emotions which Ève cannot even begin to decipher, before curtseying before her. “My lady.”

“You’re here to collect the reward, I suppose,” she says. 

“That’s … why I came,” Joy replies. 

They’re both silent for a moment. 

“I’m happy you found your family,” Joy says. “You deserve a happy ending.”

“Thank you,” Ève says. She can feel herself softening towards Joy, now that they’re in the same room again – but then she remembers the lie, and that Joy has just come from collecting her reward, and she hardens her heart as best she can. “What will you do with the money?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joy says. “I’ve always wanted to see more of France than just Paris. There’s a couple of tickets with my name on them for the south.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Sunday morning.”

“Well,” Ève says. “I’m glad we both got what we wanted.” She turns around and walks back up the stairs.

“Ève –”

She turns, halfway up, and looks back at Joy, still standing lost in the hall. “I’m sorry for lying to you. I should have told you about our intentions from the start.”

Ève looks down at her hand on the banister. “Well, it did turn out to be true. So – thank you for the apology.” She looks up, and their eyes meet. 

A door slams shut somewhere down the street, and whatever spell is over both of them is broken. Ève hurries up the stairs, and pretends not to notice when the front door clicks shut.   
She’s happy to find her family again. Mémé tells her all kinds of stories about her childhood, her parents, her brothers. Ève’s own memories come slower, but they’ve been trickling through nevertheless. She tells Mémé about her life in the workhouse, the beauty of Scotland’s landscape and the grace of the English countryside she had seen on the way down to Dover. Mémé tells her about her own life as a young woman, being queen and bringing up Ève’s father. For the first time in her life, Ève feels like she finally knows who she is and where she comes from. She’s happy. But she should be happier. 

“The woman who helped bring you back came over today,” Mémé says that evening as they dress for the ball. 

“Oh?” Ève says, aiming for nonchalance. “To claim her reward, no doubt.”

“As a matter of fact, she rejected the money,” Mémé says as she applies her peppermint scent. 

Ève lays her handkerchief down on her lap. “She  _ rejected _ the money? But I thought that was why she did all of this in the first place?”

“Oh, little wren, i don’t think so,” Mémé says. She glides over and takes Ève’s face between her hands. “Didn’t she tell you? After you fled the ballet, she stayed behind and ambushed me at my coach – practically  _ forced _ me to come to your hotel. She believed you were – well,  _ you _ – and she had proof.” 

“She – what?” Ève asks. 

Mémé lets her go, and walks back to her jewellery box to retrieve the music box. She gently takes the pendant of Ève’s necklace – still around her neck, more out of habit than anything else – and inserts it into the box, turning it slowly. The familiar little tune plays, and Ève takes the box into her two hands. “This was in her pocket. I suspect that she held onto it for quite some time.”

With a dull jab of pain, Ève gets a fleeting memory – (the clanging of swords, Mémé’s hand in hers, the music box itself dropping out of her hands. “My music box!” she cries out, and tries to go back for it, but a tall girl grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her back into the secret passage) – and for the second time in a week, feels as if her entire worldview has just been tilted on its axis. 

“Does this … change anything?” Mémé asks. 

“No,” Ève says, shaking her head and donning her thick winter cloak. “No, we should still go to the ball.” 

“If you say so, little wren,” Mémé says, shooting her a concerned look. Ève doesn’t acknowledge it, and the moment passes. “One more thing,” she says, going back to the jewellery box. “The finishing touch, if you will. I wore this, and my mother wore it, and her mother wore it as well.” She takes out a small tiara, sparkling with diamonds. It’s simply made, wrought of silver, and impossibly delicate. “So did your mother. And so will you, if you want to.”

“Mémé, it’s … it’s beautiful,” Ève says. “But what about everybody else? Isn’t this just painting a target on our backs?”

“All the women in france wear tiaras and crowns,” Mémé says airily. “You will just be the only one wearing the real thing.” She places it on Ève’s head, arranging her curls so that they frame her face, and gestures for Ève to look in the mirror. “You were born to wear this, little wren.”

_ Then why does my reflection look like a stranger? _ Ève thinks.

* * *

 

The deep green bleeds out from between the cobblestones. It trails behind that troublesome princess and the Queen Mother on their way to the ball. It is determined to take its revenge this time. 

Down at the docks, Joy feels a strange prickle on the back of her neck. She suddenly feels as if Ève is in danger again – the same kind of danger she had been in on the ferry across to France. She leaves her bags in her cabin, and rushes across Paris to the house where she knows the ball is being held tonight.

* * *

 

After the first three dances, Ève steals away to the garden to cool off. She discovered that she has a good eye for dance steps, and the first two country dances were actually fun. But the third dance was a waltz, and as hard as she tried, Ève couldn’t help comparing the tall, lithe man who spun her around the room to Joy, twirling her on the deck of the ship. 

Ève tips her head up to the sky, letting out a long breath. The tiara on her head is firmly wedged into place, but the weight feels unnatural and restrictive. She runs her fingers over her dress, looking back down to check that nothing is wrinkled or torn. Apparently everybody thinks she looks good in blue, as the Queen Mother’s dressmaker had placed her in a powder-blue dress, with creamy lace details at the cuffs. It’s a heavy dress – nothing like the lightweight one which Joy had bought for her. 

“There I go again,” Ève mutters. She pads carefully towards the far end of the garden, which merges into a small hedge maze. It’s not impenetrable, and if somebody wants to find her it won’t be difficult to do so. “Why is it so impossible to just – just stop thinking about her?” she asks the air. She continues walking deeper into the maze, so caught up in her own thoughts that the sounds of the hedges rearranging themselves goes unnoticed. “So she didn’t take the reward money. What does that mean? If she does – if she cared about me at all, why is she leaving without telling me that I’m wrong about her? What does it matter, anyway – I’ll probably never see her again.” Ève stops. “I’ll never see her again.” 

And then, suddenly, the reason why she wasn’t as happy with her grandmother as she should have been. 

“I have to see her again,” Ève whispers. She looks around for the path, and begins running down it. But the path doesn’t take her back to the gardens, to the party, to Mémé, who could order a coach to take Ève to the docks. It takes Eve to a bridge. 

She walks out of the hedge slowly. On the bridge is a figure in a deep green cloak.

“Hello?” Ève asks. “I’m sorry, I think I’ve gotten lost. Can you help me?”

The figure throws its hood back, to reveal a beautiful woman with white-blonde hair, and deep green eyes.

“I’m not so sure about that, Ève.”

“How do you know my name?” Ève asks, shrinking back a little. 

“It’s all over the papers. The little lost princess, back with her grandmother after fourteen years apart.”

“Who are you?!” Ève demands. 

The woman laughs. “My name is Agathe.” With a flourish of her fingers, Ève’s feet are stuck to the ground, as immovable as stone. “Now,” the woman smirks. “Let’s talk.”

“You want to talk?” Ève says, trying her best to keep the panic out of her voice. “Alright, let’s talk. Number one: what the hell is going on? Number two: do you mind  _ not _ pinning my feet to the floor with magic?”

Agathe laughs darkly. “But if I left your little feet free, you would just run away again, wouldn’t you? The same way you ran fourteen years ago.”

Ève feels as if the ground has just given way beneath her. “What are you talking about? You don’t look that much older than me – you would have been a child back then, the same as I was.”

Agathe takes three slow steps towards Ève, until she’s close enough for Ève to feel the breath coming out of her mouth. “Think again, little princess,” she whispers. Her skin shifts, and she is no longer a young woman but an elderly crone, her skin as thin as paper and slightly translucent. Her eyes stay the same, even as Ève sees the veins and sunken bones across her face. Ève shrinks away as best she can, but her feet are still stuck to the ground. Agathe chuckles, allowing her youthful appearance to sink back over her face, and she steps back. 

“What …  _ are _ you?” Ève asks. 

“I am something more powerful than you can imagine,” Agathe says. “I am capable of things greater than you can comprehend. You might call me a witch.” She bares her teeth. “I prefer enchantress.”

“What do you want from me?”

In a sudden flash of movement, so quick that Ève’s brain takes several seconds to process it, Agathe has a hand around Ève s throat and has pulled her over to the edge of the bridge. Ève’s back curves over the edge, and her hands scrabble for purchase on the witch’s fingers as she begins to squeeze. As Agathe presses down harder, she shoves Ève’s body further over the edge, and her feet lose contact with the ground.

“I want what I wanted fourteen years ago,” she hisses into Ève’s ear. “What I wanted forty years ago. I want your family line  _ destroyed _ . I was almost there, too. I would have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for –”

“Get away from her!”

Both Ève and Agathe turn at the new voice. At the opposite end of the bridge, her skirt clutched in both hands so she can run faster and her hair streaming behind her is Joy, racing towards them. “Don’t hurt her!” she yells, putting on an extra burst of speed. A sense of relief sinks into Ève, but not enough to stop her almost primal fear of the witch. In her surprise, Agathe’s grip on Ève’s throat loosens. 

Ève takes in a gulp of air and screams, “Joy! be careful! She’s a –”

Agathe throws Ève down on the ground, and she sees the witch’s hand glowing. “No!” Ève screams, and she leaps onto Agathe’s back. She moves just in time; the spell leaves Agathe’s hands, and instead of hitting Joy’s chest it lands on the edge of the bridge beside her, cracking the stonework and sending several good-sized chunks of the bridge into the river below. Even though it misses her, the impact is still enough to send Joy flying off to one side; her head hits the balustrade with a sickening crack, and she collapses on the ground in a heap of fabric. 

Ève screams, and grabs hold of the witch’s shoulders. She shakes her, hits her as hard as she can, pulls at her cloak. With another pulse of light, Agathe sends out a burst of energy that sends Ève backwards onto the balustrade again. Her fingers still cling to the witch’s cloak, which is ripped from her shoulders. To Ève’s surprise, Agathe actually looks out of breath.

“That girl,” she snarls, “has been more trouble than she’s worth.”

Ève looks back at Joy – to her inexpressible relief, she can see Joy’s chest rising and falling.

“On the contrary,” Ève spits. “She’s worth every bit of trouble.”

Agathe stumbles as the words leave Ève’s mouth. “She single-handedly ruined my revenge, you stupid child,” she said. “That pathetic little moment of self-sacrifice, closing the door behind you and your grandmother and staying behind? That  _ alone _ prevented my influence from following you.”

Ève presses up harder against the balustrade. The very beginnings of a plan begins to form in her mind, but it’s incredibly risky. She decides to keep Agathe talking as long as she can. 

“What about on the boat? I’m guessing that was you – normal dreams don’t induce near-suicide.”

“Oh, aren’t you a quick one,” Agathe croons. “The fire on the Scottish border was mine as well.”

“I see,” Ève says. She uses the fabric in front of her hands to hide the fact that her fingers are shifting to get a better grip on the cloak. “But why do it?” she asks. “Why go to all this bother? Kill my family – hide my brother – destroy  _ me – why?” _

Agathe stops short. “Hide your brother?” she says, her voice low and dangerous again. “Now that’s interesting. How did you figure that little tidbit out?”

“People don’t just disappear into thin air,” Ève says. Because that, she dimly remembers, is exactly what had happened. One minute she and Adam had been sitting in the coach with her parents and Vincent – they had been stopped, and found, but the person on the other side of the coach door was a distant memory to Ève. And the next, before her and her family’s very eyes, Adam had turned into nothing. “I may not remember everything yet, but I remember enough. Tell me why you took my brother. Tell me why you murdered my parents. And tell me why you keep trying to kill  _ me _ , as well.”

Agathe pauses, and Ève takes the moment to strike. 

She runs towards the witch, but before she can execute her plan – throw the cloak over her head and try to subdue her – Ève’s feet are stuck to the floor again. The sudden, jarring stop almost makes her lose her balance, and with a quick twist Agathe reclaims her cloak. 

“Sly little princess,” she tuts. “You almost had me, too. I suppose you learned a thing or two in that workhouse.” Agathe looks her up and down. “Not that you particularly look like a princess right now. You certainly  _ look _ like you came from a workhouse.”

Ève glances down at herself. In the struggles, her dress has ripped in several places; the hemline has ripped away ragged, showing her petticoats; one of her sleeves is falling off; even the tiara, though she can still feel it on her head, has slipped several inches to the left. “I’m not ashamed of where i came from,” Ève says.

“A royal unashamed of poverty? How novel.” she drawls. “I’d love to sit and chat, but I really must get on with this. It’s been stretched out for far too long already.”

Instead of choking Ève again, Agathe taps her foot on the ground and a large crack appears in the bridge – with Ève on the wrong side of it. With an unhealthy groan half the bridge begins to sink into the water. Just before it falls, Ève feels the magic pinning her feet loosen, and she makes a leap for the part of the bridge still standing. The instant her feet leave the ground, the stonework lands with a crash in the water beneath her – Ève just manages to make the jump, her hands and fingers grasping onto the cobblestones and her body from the hips down hanging helplessly over the river.

“I must say,” Agathe says, “you’re making all of this very dramatic. It’ll make it that much more interesting to reminisce on – far more entertaining than how either of your brothers died.”

“Why?!” Ève grunts. “Why are you doing this? Why do you want revenge?”

Agathe crouches down in front of Ève. “Because your family crossed paths with an enchantress, my sweet. and they disrespected me.” She strokes Ève’s hair, and Ève struggles not to shudder – if she does, the movement will most likely send her falling to her death. “I appeared to your father and bestowed upon him the honour of having me for a wife,” Agathe continues. “But he refused. He said he would rather have the human love of your mother than all the riches I could offer him. so I made him a promise.” She plucks the tiara from Ève’s hair, and runs her eyes over it critically. “I would let him and his wife reign in peace. But his children would pay for his mistake. It is a promise I have almost fulfilled.” She counts them off on her fingers. “One son killed before him on the guillotine, the Crown Prince of France brought as low as a commoner. One son imprisoned and driven mad by the isolation, throwing himself from the window rather than stay alive a moment longer. One daughter about to drown like a rat, the way she should have fourteen years ago. And for what? For  _ love, _ when he could have had all the power my arts could give him  _ combined _ with his supreme power as king! What sane person would choose  _ sentiment _ over a gift like that?”

Ève can feel the muscles in her hands and arms beginning to give way. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she manages to choke out. “Love is a gift all on its own. It can’t be forced, and it can’t be taken. It can only be given or accepted.” Agathe cringes away from her again, and something finally makes the connection in Ève’s mind. 

“I loved my parents,” she says. With a loud series of creaks and the crashing of waves, Ève feels rather than sees the fallen half of the bridge rising out of the river and rejoining the original structure. She neatly hops up so that she’s standing tall once again. 

“I loved my brother, Vincent; he used to play swords with me.” Agathe steps away from Ève, and she can see the witch beginning to age rapidly. 

“I loved my brother, Adam. He would read to me when I couldn’t sleep, and we would play pretend together in the daytime.” The part of the bridge that had been destroyed by the spell that missed Joy reforms before Ève’s eyes. 

“I love my grandmother. She gave me this necklace to remember her when I was a child; even when I could remember nothing, I would look at this and know that somebody loved me.” Agathe is no longer a young woman, or even the crone she had appeared to be, but is now positively skeletal. She staggers towards Ève, tripping over the edge of her cloak and collapsing on the ground. 

“I love my friend, Lizzie. She was always kind, and she always listened.”

Agathe lets out a dying scream of anger. 

“And I love Joy.Ii love her so much that I feel incomplete without her. She’s my family, and she’s my friend. And I love her more than  _ anything _ in this world.”

Ève stays perfectly still as Agathe crumbles to dust. A sharp breeze blows away the dust, into the river below her. The cloak flies away on the breeze, and all that’s left of the woman who nearly killed Ève and Joy is the tiara she ripped from Ève’s hair.

Ève feels her legs finally give way, and she collapses to her hands and knees in front of the tiara. She looks around, but the only other person on the bridge is Joy, still lying where she fell. Ève half-crawls over to her side, and carefully lays Joy in her lap, making sure to support her neck. Joy is still breathing, but Ève can’t stop her fear from making her heart beat faster. 

“Come on, Joy,” she whispers. “Don’t leave me now.” She carefully caresses Joy’s face. “You have to wake up, Joy. I need to tell you – I –”

Ève breaks off suddenly, as Joy’s eyes gently blink open. A confused smile spreads over her face. “Ève?” she says. 

“Yes – yes, it’s me!”

Joy pushes herself up to a sitting position, and looks around the bridge. “That woman – what happened? Where did she go?”

“She’s – dead,” Ève says. She can’t quite wrap her head around the details herself; she can go over it with Joy at a later time. “You came back,” she says. “You saved my life – again.”

“Of course I came back,” Joy says. “I couldn’t just – it’s my fault for lying to you in the first place –”

“– Joy, that doesn’t matter any more –”

“– I didn’t want to intrude, and you seemed happy –”

“– I was, but not completely –”

“I mean, you’d found your family again, there wasn’t a place for me –”

“Joy!” 

She stops, and looks at Ève with surprise written on her face. 

“There’s always going to be a place for you with me.” 

Joy’s face is the very picture of disbelieving hope. And then, for once in her life acting without thinking about it, Ève takes Joy’s face between her hands and presses a kiss to her lips.

For a moment, Joy does nothing, and Ève panics, wondering if she has read their entire relationship wrong. But then she comes alive beneath her lips, taking Ève’s waist in her own hands, and she kisses Ève as if they are the only two people in the world. Ève keeps one hand on Joy’s face, but allows the other to trail down her neck and shoulder, curling around her back so that they are drawn close together. 

They break apart with a shudder, and Joy presses her forehead to Ève’s. “I could hear you, at the end,” she says. “You said you loved me.” She lifts one hand from Ève’s waist to brush her hair away from her face. “I love you too, y’know.” She gives Ève a series of little kisses all over her face, from her mouth to her cheeks to the tip of her nose, before reclaiming her lips in another passionate kiss. 

“I was – I was at a ball,” Ève says between kisses, laughing as she does so. “And I realised – I realised that nobody I danced with could compare to you, on the ship over from England. And I realised … I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye properly. Well, I actually wanted to – to go with you, but I thought that might be moving a little fast –”

“You can come, if you want!” Joy says. “I do have an extra ticket.”

Ève looks down at her dress. “Can we go back and pack a bag? Oh – and I should probably leave a note for Mémé explaining things.”

“Yes,” Joy smiles. “And you can tell me as well on the way over. I’d like to know what happened to you after I blacked out that ruined that dress so much.”

* * *

 

The Queen Mother finds the letter on her dresser, pinned in place by the music box and the tiara she had given Ève. Lumière had been summoned away from his new fiancée and his cousin to escort her to and from the ball, and he reads the letter aloud for her while she calmly takes out her jewellery.

_ Dear Mémé, _ the letter reads.

_ I’m sorry that I have to leave a note, instead of telling you in person, but the boat leaves tomorrow morning and we’d rather not miss it.  _

_ Joy and I are going away together. Some might say running, but I’m not running anywhere. Our ticket takes us to the south of France, and we’re going to start seeing the world from there onwards.  _

_ I found out that she was the girl who saved us, all those years ago. She’s saved my life twice more since then – once on the ferry over, and once more tonight. I saved her life as well, tonight, so we’re almost even there. Joy says that she’ll accept repayment in the form of sharing my life with her, and such terms happen to be highly agreeable to me. _

_ I’m not sure when we’ll be back in Paris, but when we are we will have so many stories to tell you about our travels that it’ll almost be like you came with us. No matter where I am, though, all I have to do is look at my necklace and remember what’s waiting for me with you. I’ve spent my whole life looking for family, and now I have more of it than I know what to do with! _

_ All my love, _

_ Ève  _

“How romantic!” Lumière exclaims. “They have eloped!” 

The Queen Mother chuckles. “It seems that they have.”

“A happy ending, after all!”

“No, Lumière,” she says, looking out the window at the river. She imagines Ève and Joy, together in the cabin of one of the boats out on the river, off to see the world. She looks at the music box, and runs her fingers over it. “A happy beginning,” she corrects.

**_fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the ‘Anastasia’ part of the AU — the next chapter is literally just smut. So if you’re not into that, just don’t read Chapter 6. Bye!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sex is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just a chapter of sex, so don't worry about plot -- that ended in the previous chapter.

They manage to wait until the door to the small cabin is both closed and locked before they start kissing again. Joy twists the key and, just to be safe, slides the bolt home as well. The instant she places the key safely on the little hook beside the door she feels Ève seize her waist, and Joy barely has time to take a breath before she’s spun around and pinned against the door, the full length of Ève’s body pressed against hers. Ève bends her head to claim Joy’s lips in a kiss, her hands still snug around her waist. Joy reaches for Ève’s shoulders, looping one arm around her neck while the other goes roaming down her back. Joy drags Ève’s lower lip through her teeth, and she feels rather than hears her groan. Their tongues dance lightly around each other, and it feels electric. 

Ève breaks away with a gasp, and her pupils are so dilated that her iris appears to be only a thin ring of silver. “You’re good at that,” she says. “Too good. I feel like I have lots to catch up on.”

“Trust me,” Joy says, somehow without a hint of her voice wobbling, “you’re doing an excellent job so far.”

Ève grins, her teeth gleaming slightly in the candlelight, and leans forwards again; this time to mouth along Joy’s jaw to the corner where it meets her neck. She gasps, the sound gathering weight as Ève kisses further down her neck. She runs the fingers of one hand through Ève’s tumbledown curls, while the other hand slides down her spine to the small of her back — Joy can feel the boning of Ève’s corset under the layers of her bodice. As Ève grazes her teeth over a rather sensitive spot on Joy’s neck, her fingers clutch around the base of Ève’s head. The nails dig in slightly, and she shivers. 

Joy uses her leverage to bring their faces back together, and she works on kissing the life out of Ève. Judging from the groans Joy can hear, she’s succeeding. Ève’s hand drags slowly up Joy’s torso as they continue kissing furiously, cupping the swell of Joy’s breast and squeezing lightly just as Ève moves her tongue in a way that leaves Joy moaning from the double assault. 

“Jesus, Ève,” she gasps, pulling away for breath. Desperate in a way she wasn’t a moment before, she shifts so that one of Ève’s thighs presses between her legs and grinds down on it. As Ève continues to explore Joy’s left breast, Joy leans her head forwards to lavish kisses over Ève’s clavicle and collarbones. The stiff lace of her dress hampers Joy’s attempts to drag her lips lower; nothing but Ève’s voluminous skirts, however, prevent Joy from letting her other hand sink from the small of Ève’s back to the curve of her ass and grabbing it firmly. 

Ève gasps, the ghost of a curse appearing on her lips, and Joy hides a laugh in the crook where Ève’s neck joins her shoulder. As she continues kneading it, Ève’s hips begin to twist with Joy’s movements — backwards towards Joy’s hand on her ass, and forwards to grind down on her leg between her thighs. 

“I have an idea,” Joy murmurs. Without warning, she spins them, so that Ève is now pressed up against the door — she bangs her wristbone against the wood rather painfully, but it’s worth it for the look of combined shock and arousal on Ève’s face. “How about we take this to the bed?”

“Alright,” Ève gasps, clearly out of witty rejoinders for the moment, before pulling Joy back into a toe-curling kiss. Joy groans into it, pressing Ève flat against the door for a moment, before pulling both of them a couple of steps further into the room. She breaks away to undress as quickly as she can, her fingers not quick enough for her own liking. Joy is down to only her shift after a few short minutes — a glance over at Ève reveals that she’s still in her stays. 

“It unlaces at the back,” she says. “Can you help?”

“Of course,” Joy grins. Ève turns, and Joy begins undoing the corset. The laces are soon relaxed enough for Ève to take a deep breath, and Joy continues to loosen them until she can pull the corset up and over Ève’s head. Once removed, Joy notices that Ève was busy as well, removing the last pins from her hair so that it rests fully down, curling resplendent over her shoulders. It almost looks like a halo in the dim candlelight, and Joy says so. 

“Stop,” Ève blushes. “You don’t need to flatter me. My hair is a ridiculous colour and has a mind of its own.”

“Ève,” she says, twisting a lock of it round her finger. “Your hair is not ridiculous. It’s stunning.” She lets it spring back into a curl, and slides her hand around Ève’s waist. “All of you is stunning,” Joy says, and kisses her again. 

Ève’s hands clutch at Joy’s shoulders and back as they kiss. When Joy palms her breast and licks into her mouth, they bunch firmly in the fabric of Joy’s shift. They press together as close as they can, as if they could meld into one being, and Joy only breaks away to attack Ève’s neck again. Her restrictive neckline removed, Joy freely kisses down her neck to kiss the tops of Ève’s breasts, alternating wet kisses with little nips that leave Ève gasping. 

“Bed,” she says, “we should — the bed.” She kisses Joy again, running her fingers through her also loosened hair, and they stumble backwards to one of the beds. Ève’s fingers tighten in her hair, and Joy lets out a moan. 

Ève ends up on her back, her shift rucked up to her thighs as Joy lays half over her, running her hands up and down her torso from waist to breast. Ève’s hands are also busy, one in Joy’s hair and one grabbing her ass. Her hand slides further down, to Joy’s thigh, and she tugs on it impatiently. “Up,” she says. 

“Alright,” Joy whispers, and swings her leg over so that she’s now straddling Ève. She props herself up on her arms and continues kissing her, mindful of her own body weight. When Ève responds by pulling her further downwards, clutching at her shoulders, hips, ass, Joy obliges and groans into her mouth. 

“Joy,” Ève gasps. “Joy,” she repeats a second later. 

“Everything alright?” she asks. 

“Take off your shift. I want to see you.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Joy sits back on her haunches and peels off her shift. She shivers slightly, and not just from the cool air of the cabin hitting her skin. Ève looks  _ hungry, _ drinking in the sight of Joy’s pale skin and large thighs. She runs a hand up from Joy’s knee, resting on her hip, and just breathes. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” she says. “God. I want to touch you.”

“Can I take off  _ your _ shift as well?”

“Please.”

It takes a moment of shimmying around, but then Ève is naked beneath her, and Joy understands the nature of the look she’d received. Ève is all curves beneath her, although the few weeks of good living have done little to alter the wiry muscle fourteen years of labour had provided. Joy bends back down to kiss her, and the heightened intimacy of feeling Ève’s naked skin against her own is enough to drive Joy wild — and from Ève’s actions the feeling seems to be mutual. 

She pulls away after a moment, leaning towards Ève’s ear, and whispers, “I’d like to eat you out. Does that sound good?”

Ève gasps. “I — yeah — but I’ve never —“

“That’s alright,” Joy continues, dragging kisses down from Ève’s neck. “We can do whatever you want. You change your mind, say a word and I stop.”

Ève makes a ‘yes’ sound in the back of her throat, and Joy kisses around her chest. There’s a small brown freckle underneath her right breast that she drops a kiss to, memorising the location as she shifts her body further down. She continues her path down Ève’s stomach, automatically settling her body between Ève’s legs as she makes room for her. Joy glances back to her face, and Ève looks slightly dazed at whatever image Joy between her legs strikes. Joy grins at Ève again before deliberately pressing her lips to her inner thigh. 

Ève lays her head back on the pillow. Joy’s eyes flick back down to the body in front of her — the body of the woman she loves. She kisses down into the hollow between thigh and pelvis, nipping very gently with her teeth before soothing it with a swipe of her tongue. She ghosts over Ève’s mound altogether before starting on the other leg — taking her time kissing slowly from the knee down the length of Ève’s thigh. She licks into the hollow on her other side, and feels gratified at the twitch Ève’s hips give. Taking a breath, Joy spreads Ève open. She’s already so wet, and Joy feels an answering surge of heat between her own thighs. She leans her head down and licks up from Ève’s opening to her clit, circling it gently with the tip of her tongue. 

A strangled noise comes out of Ève’s mouth, and Joy feels a hand tentatively cup the top of her head. She clamps Ève’s hips (already shifting closer to her mouth) in place with one hand, while with the other she winds Ève’s fingers in her hair. Ève tugs gently, and Joy groans, the vibrations causing Ève to subsequently gasp, “Oh, Joy!” 

She continues to circle Ève’s clit with her tongue, varying her speed in response to Ève’s little gasps and attempts to buck her hips. When her body begins to shake, and her gasps become more frequent, Joy slides her tongue further down, inside of Ève, changing her stimulation. Ève lets out a moan at that, rich and heady, and Joy fucks her in tiny increments with her tongue. 

“Oh — oh,  _ jesus _ , Joy,  _ oh —“  _ Ève says at this change, and her body relaxes slightly as Joy winds down the tension even if her voice is strangled. Not a minute later, however, she’s back up at her clit, licking furiously until Ève’s thighs start shaking again, and then she goes back down to cool her off at her core. Joy repeats this, paying attention to her clit and fucking her on her tongue alternately, until Ève’s hand in her hair is clenched as tight as possible, and she’s chanting Joy’s name and a plea for release, and Joy isn’t sure herself how much longer she can go on for. So she licks up to Ève’s clit again, pressing the flat of her tongue against it and circling it with the tip, doing anything she can think of to tip Ève over the edge. 

Ève gasps again, cries, “Fuck,  _ Joy _ , don’t  _ stop _ ,” and comes, pressing Joy’s face into her as she grinds against her tongue, her orgasm causing her hips to buck up wildly. Joy’s jaw has been aching for a while now, her mouth is tired, and she needs to take a breath, but she doesn’t stop moving her lips and tongue until the very last of Ève’s orgasm has fizzled out, and she pushes her head away to one side. She rests her cheek on Ève’s thigh as she catches her breath, and the fist in her hair becomes Ève stroking her head soothingly. 

Joy props her chin on the fleshy part of Ève’s thigh, looking back up at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkling. “Well,” she says, “how was that for your first time?”

“Get up here,” Ève says, pulling gently on her shoulders. Once up, she pulls Joy into a kiss, no doubt tasting herself in Joy’s mouth, a thought that makes her moan. Ève breaks away. “I don’t know how to use a mouth like that yet,” she says, “but I have fingers?” She waggles them, and Joy laughs. 

“Alright,” she says. To her surprise, Ève prods her around a little, until they’re in the inverse of their original positions; Joy on her back, and Ève propped over her. She kisses Joy’s neck from jawline to collarbone, one arm supporting her upper body while the other lingers over Joy’s breasts. Ève licks back up Joy’s neck, leaning down to kiss her, as her hand wanders down Joy’s body towards her mound. At the first brush of her fingers, Joy gasps. Ève runs her finger up and down the length of her, spreading the wetness around, before gently beginning to circle her clit. Joy groans into her mouth, grinding up into Ève’s hand, but her touch is just as maddeningly light and slow. 

“I — a bit harder?” Joy asks after a minute or so, when it becomes clear that Ève is perfectly content to keep up the light pace. “Please?” she tacks on out of politeness. 

Ève does so, and Joy moans. She can feel herself getting wetter under Ève’s fingers and the force of her mouth. “Faster,” she says. 

Ève speeds up, as she asked — but she also lessens the pressure. “Ève, don’t —  _ fuck, _ please don’t tease me,” she says, pausing as Ève drops her head to mouth over her breasts. “Ève, please. I’m – I’m so close.”

She shifts back up suddenly, her fingers pressing down as she continues rubbing Joy’s clit, and Joy lets out a moan. She kisses her hard, a kiss that has Joy scrabbling at Ève’s shoulders as she moves her fingers faster. 

“Whatever you want,” she says, repeating Joy’s own words back to her. “What do you want?”

“Ève — fuck, Ève,” Joy says as she feels her orgasm begin to build up. “You. I want — unf — you.” She pulls Ève down into another kiss, and revels in the feeling of flesh and blood and love pressed against and around her, screwing her eyes shut. 

“Good,” Ève pants as she breaks off. “You’ve got me.” She scrapes her teeth against that one particular spot on Joy’s neck, her hand still moving at speed, and Joy shudders apart as she comes. 

She actually shouts when her orgasm hits her, a wordless noise which begins as Ève’s name. She bucks against Ève’s hand, her breath coming in harsh gasps and her back arching off the bed, and Joy could swear she sees stars against the inside of her eyelids. Still gasping, she falls back against the pillow, and the last traces of her orgasm fizz through her as Ève’s fingers slow and stop. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes. 

Ève laughs, and presses a kiss to her cheek. Joy opens her eyes again, and in the dim glow of the candlelight she sees Ève’s face, sex-flushed and covered in a fond smile. Her hand rests on Joy’s cheek, the tip of her thumb brushing the corner of Joy’s mouth. Joy places her own hand over it, squeezing lightly. “That was . . . you’re so . . .”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lost for words,” Ève chuckles gently. A moment later she bites her lip, and her face grows serious. “But that was . . . you liked it? Like I said, I — I’ve never done this before —“

“Ève,” she says, cutting her off. “That was a stellar orgasm. And even if it hadn’t been, it would have been amazing sex just because it was with  _ you _ , okay?” Joy presses her hand again, trying to get the message across. “I love you. Now can you please come down here and kiss me?”

Ève does so, a gentle caress that communicates her feelings as much as the words do. “I love you too, Joy,” she says, kissing her one last time before lying down beside her and curling into her side. Ève rests her hand on Joy’s stomach while she plays with Ève’s hair, and drops a kiss on her forehead. 

“Hey, Ève?” Joy says a moment later.

“Yeah?” she asks without moving her head.

“I’m really glad I met you.”

“So am I,” she says. She presses a kiss to Joy’s shoulder, and sighs happily.

Eventually, lulled by the rocking of the boat and lapping of waves, they fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've ever written smut, so if anybody has any feedback I'd really appreciate it :D


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